


The Sterek Olympics: Let the Games Begin!

by twerkinshield



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Olympics AU, basically an excuse to write different Olympics shenanigans and smut, feel free to send me a prompt to write about!, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twerkinshield/pseuds/twerkinshield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of oneshots, and some 2-part stories, that act as standalone pieces for different Sterek Olympics prompts. Feel free to message me about prompts you'd be interested in seeing! :)</p><p>Dedicated to my dearest friend Emily (url: wolfbeater) and her eternal love for gay werewolves and stupid sarcastic humans UwU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rockin' The Boat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wolfbeater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfbeater/gifts).



Derek sighs exasperatedly as he warms up, stretching his legs against the wall and rolling his shoulders, watching his teammates do their individual pre-workout warm-up. Scott is smiling like a puppy and is busy flirting with the captain of the American archery team, Isaac is talking with their assistant coach Boyd as he checks the luge sleds for defects, and Stiles. Well, Stiles is being Stiles. As usual.

Stiles made the cut onto the team at the very end of the season, just _barely_ making the weight specifications to be a proper fit for the team. And of course, with Derek’s _stellar_ luck, he happens to be placed right at the back of the sled right behind the smaller man. With his slender frame, strong jaw, amber eyes, the moles dotting his skin like a constellation of stars, the sharp quirk to his mouth, ass like cement… wait. He’s getting off topic here.

The point of the matter is that Stiles is fucking _distracting as hell_. And decidedly not interested in Derek at all.

Derek laments the fact that he’s gay as fuck and stuck at the winter Olympics with the world’s most fit and attractive people who are most definitely _not_ swinging for his team. Case in point, Stiles is off in the stands chatting with a gorgeous woman with fiery copper hair, looking for all the world like a tiny, disinterested goddess of the hunt. It doesn’t help that Stiles is so obviously hanging off of every word she’s saying, speaking rapidly in turn and gesticulating wildly with his hands. A quick grin and a one-liner and the redhead is throwing her head back and laughing delightedly, her peals of laughter echoing clear as a bell throughout the stadium.

Derek has never been more jealous of a tiny ginger before.

He turns dejectedly back to his water bottle, focusing on the tiny Olympic rainbow insignia and wishing that he could somehow sport red hair without looking like a cosplayer.

“Hey sourpuss! Why the scary serial killer face?”

Speak of the devil.

“I don’t look like a serial killer.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows disbelievingly, “Sure, whatever you say babe.”

Derek’s heart skips a beat at the term of endearment, and then he promptly squashes the feeling down to the deepest pits of his soul, determined to not let himself get his hopes up. Derek flat out refuses to pine after someone hot and unattainable after the incident that shall remain unmentioned when he came out to uncle Peter.

“Don’t call me babe.”

“Bae?”

“That’s the same thing. And no.”

“What?! No it’s not! It means _before all else_!”

Derek feels his cheeks flush hotly, “It sounds like you’re calling me a bee.”

“Awww so cute! But you don’t have the cuteness that bumblebees have! You’re all scowly and scary and you look like you’ll kill and eat your opponents for breakfast. Maybe as a nice frittata or as a casserole. Something sophisticated and unassuming like that.”

“You have a rather _vivid_ imagination Stiles,” Derek shakes his head, trying to hide the delighted grin at finding someone who’s not scared of his resting face. “It’s just a little bit morbid.”

“I’m almost done season one of _Hannibal_. It’s my kind of humour, so sue me.”

“Eat me.”

Derek swears he will take the warm feelings he gets – from watching Stiles throw his head back and cackle – to the grave.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 _Why the fuck did I ever think the luge would be a great sport for me?_  

Derek looks at his life and re-evaluates his choices as he watches Stiles stretch and warm up in front of him as Coach Cupcake – shut up he likes to be called that and no one knows why – yells out orders like a practiced drill sergeant. He is man enough to admit that he drools a bit when his eyes slide down the sleek lines of Stiles’ back, straining and twisting under the neoprene speed suit lining his torso. But he definitely does _not_ whimper when Stiles bends over to touch his toes. Nope. Never. Wasn’t Derek.

“Stiles,” Derek hisses. “I swear to god if you don’t stop wiggling your ass and being a little fuckwit I’m gonna run you over with the sled.”

All Derek gets is the silent shaking of Stiles’ shoulders as he laughs silently and is graced with a clipboard to the head from Coach.

Scott looks over at Derek and shrugs good naturedly, whispering, “You know, if you’re interested in Stiles then you should just go for him. He’s not actually as intimidating as you seem to think he is.”

Derek chokes on his own tongue, “What?! I don’t _like_ Stiles! Are you crazy?”

Scott blinks slowly, like a confused puppy, “So you’re saying the reason you’ve been death glaring at Lydia is _not_ because you’re in love with Stiles?”

Lydia? The red head? Well then.

“I just- no I mean- fuck okay yes,” Derek glares at his teammate murderously. “But don’t you fucking say anything. Not in the middle of the goddamn Olympics. And besides, I thought he was straight?” Derek’s heart pangs uncomfortably.

Scott just moves to stretch out his leg and scrunches his face up in thought, “Well now that I think about it, I’ve never actually asked what Stiles’ sexual orientation is… I mean he’s been interested in Lydia for forever so I don’t actually know…”

Derek feels his heart drop like a stone.

“Oh.”

Scott’s face lights up quickly, desperate to reassure his friend, “But that shouldn’t stop you! Stiles is a great guy!”

“Yeah. I’ll keep that in mind when he tells me he’s not into cock.”

He almost feels bad for Scott’s kicked-puppy look. Almost.

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Derek wishes there was a cosmic hotline he could call to end his misery. He’ll even donate all his worldly possessions to every charity organization he can find. Money, books, clothes, you name it and he’ll give it. Anything to get out of this pure torture.

Said torture being the constant rubbing up against Stiles’ ass for the sake of their sport and for their team’s victory. They sit in a practice sled in the massive training stadium, away from the eyes of the public but privy to a few professional photographers, lunging back and forth along the small set of track in order to practice the motions they need to get a good start time. Derek takes up the caboose end of the train and can barely focus on Coach’s words beyond the tantalizing rub of Stiles’ neoprene-covered ass rubbing against his groin, Derek’s own suit becoming uncomfortably tight and leaving _nothing_ to the imagination.

Back and forth, rub and grind, Derek desperately wishes for a hole to open up in the ground to swallow him up. His cock fills out slowly, tightening the suit and making it difficult to move properly without alerting Stiles to the, ahem, _situation_ behind him.

“Hale!” Coach barks. “If you keep pussyfootin’ around then we’re not gonna win any medals this year! Put your back into it and lunge like everyone else!”

Derek feels the tips of his ears burn and nods, his throat dry as a desert, “Yes Coach.”

“Well what’re you waiting for? Get a move on!”

All it takes is six rounds of lunging for Derek’s iron control to slip, but he manages a half-hearted congratulation to himself for lasting so long without anyone noticing. But Stiles notices.

“Dude I think the sled is broken somewhere,” Stiles hisses.

Derek frowns, jolted out of his sexual luge crisis, “What? That can’t be, Boyd and Isaac were just looking at it an hour ago.”

“Well there’s something hard poking into my back!” Stiles whispers, frustrated. “Is it the wood warping or something? I swear this is one of the _biggest_ pieces of wood that’s ever come off of a sled to _stab_ me! I mean it’s like, is it a piece of broken wood or are you just happy to see me- _oh_.”

Derek wants to fucking _die_.

“Dude I didn’t think– “

Derek can’t take any more humiliation, “Coach! I think I pulled a muscle, I need to go to the med bay to get it looked at.” And without further ado, hops out of the sled to grab his coat, awkwardly covering the unfortunately timed guest appearance of his cock happily making itself known, and flees from the arena without looking back.

He doesn’t go to the med bay, that’s the first place Stiles will look for him. Instead, he goes to the communal lockers for the personal use of all the athletes attending the Olympic games. Different flag stickers on the locker doors mark the countries’ areas, and so Derek dejectedly heads over to the locker he shares with Stiles. Pulling it open and grabbing his bathing suit from the bottom of the locker – maybe he’ll head to the sauna to work off some steam – and dislodges Stiles’ satchel of personal items to fall onto the floor.

“Fucking hell I swear to god I- “

But something catches Derek’s eye, a photograph?

No, a magazine clipping, cut meticulously from one of his first articles as an Olympic ranking luge athlete. Derek’s eyes skim curiously over the photo, slightly damp at one corner and faded in the middle from wear, and wonders why on earth this would be in Stiles’ bag. Bending down to pick up the satchel, Derek surreptitiously casts a glance around the empty locker room and sits down on one of the benches to investigate further. The bag holds brightly coloured magazine pages, newspaper cut-outs, gossip mag clips, and even some random pictures of Derek posing with fans over the years.

But one picture surprises him the most. An actual polaroid turned yellow with age and carefully encased in a plastic photo cover, Derek recognizes his first state tournament as a competitor in Colorado when he’d just returned from a training tour of Europe. He grimaces at the stupid gelled up spiked hairstyle he’d religiously sported back then and shifts his attention towards the person in the photo with him.

_Stiles._

Well, what _looks_ to be Stiles. Scrawny, short, and closely shaved hair instead of the lithe, muscular form and flyaway hair that Derek knows. He’s got his arm around the kid’s shoulders and they’re smiling like they just won the world cup.

Stiles crashes into the room, “I swear to god I’m not a stalker you _have_ to believe me!” he wheezes, a crazed look in his eyes.

Derek looks up, eyes wide and disbelieving, “you…”

“I know.”

“But this is-“

“Yeah.”

“And so-“

“Basically.”

“Wow.”

“Yep.”

“You were _such_ a nerd.”

Stiles glances up hopefully, eyes liquid and flinty in the harsh lighting of the locker room.

“Bitch what do you mean ‘were’. I wear my nerd cred with fucking _pride_ motherfucker!”

Derek meets Stiles’ eyes… and bursts out laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners and his nose scrunching up as he wheezes and gasps for breath. Stiles ends up gasping for breath right alongside him, chest heaving and rasping as he leans heavily against the lockers.

“Oh my _god_ I am going to _kill_ Lydia.”

Derek stops laughing and freezes, “Your girlfriend?”

Stiles looks up incredulously, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, “Girlfriend? Hell to the no! She’s been one of my best friends since forever and besides, her type is the douchebag jock type like her current boy-toy Jackson.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Besides, I’m bisexual so my options aren’t nearly so narrow as that.”

Derek’s head whips up at the admission, taking in the sight of Stiles calmly leaning against the lockers, cheeks flushed a delicate dusting of pink.

“So let me get this straight- “ Stiles giggles. “You have a ton of my pictures in your bag because you’re a bisexual nerd with a luge fetish but you’re not a stalker. Did I miss anything?”

“Yeah, I mean Lydia’s plans don’t usually go wrong but that’s life for you.” At Derek’s frown, Stiles elaborates, “I got into luge when I met you in Colorado all those years ago, because, I mean, you were just so cool and talented and you just seemed so happy with what you were doing and it really stuck with me. And then you came out publically and I that was when I really knew I was gone.” Stiles drags a hand anxiously through his hair, mussing it up further, “So I worked my ass off to get to the big leagues and when I made it to the Olympics I thought I’d died and gone to heaven! And Jesus Christ dude, you were so different from the last time I met you.” Derek snorts. “All growly and surly and ridiculously hot, I mean really, is it even legal to be as hot as you are? There should be laws against that kind of shit.”

Derek flushes scarlet and ducks his head abashedly.

“So Lydia’s brilliant plan was to make you jealous by flirting with me. But I can see now that was a super shitty plan, but like, dude! You never give off _any_ signals about which people you like! Hell you barely let anyone know who you tolerate let alone whose dungeon you want to plunder!”

“I don’t know,” Derek muses, thoughtfully plucking at the corner of the yellowed photograph. “I do know this one guy that’s pretty hot, but I don’t know his think he’d give me the time of day.”

“What?! So you _do_ have someone?” Stiles slaps a palm to his forehead despairingly. “Shit! I _knew_ I should’ve acted sooner! I swear to god I just- “

“Stiles.” 

The man in question whirls around.

“I was talking about this guy right here,” Derek holds up the old polaroid of their younger selves, smiling softly.

“Well then. Can we make out now? I swear I haven’t jerked off this often since when I was a teenager. And fucking _hell_ I’ve been at half-mast since the luge incident because dude, you’re _huge_ and my mouth was fucking watering and I just- “

Derek is up and pinning Stiles to the lockers like a flash, hands grasping the tight suit and hips thrusting seductively against the younger man’s groin, his mouth tightly pressed against Stiles’.

Of course they’re interrupted later when Coach bursts into the locker room to yell at them for getting up to ‘hanky-panky shenanigans instead of going for the gold’. Stiles gets slapped upside the head with a clipboard when he cheekily replies that they’d been hunting for some of the Gold Magnums hidden deep in the recesses of Derek’s bag.

Fuck the Olympics, Derek’s got all the prize he needs.


	2. Always A Little Gay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation of “Rockin’ the Boat” but can be read as a standalone story. So basically if you’ve seen that Canadian luge commercial about the Olympics always being a little gay then you’ll understand the whole premise of this ficlet no problemo! 
> 
> Here's the commercial link! (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=effb2JYiKXM&feature=youtu.be)

Derek feels like he’s walking on a cloud, what with how he and Stiles are now this year’s Olympic’s darling celebrity couple, regardless of the fact that they haven’t had enough time to do anything beyond makeout in the locker rooms and hold hands while getting food. 

With all the crazy political messages flying around Sochi this year with the anti-gay laws and extreme discrimination, the Canadian luge team approaches them with a proposition: that Derek and Stiles will help film a pro-gay commercial in exchange for the use of the bigger training track. It’s a no brainer of course, and Coach Cupcake ushers them out the door like a mother hen once all the paperwork is signed and their timeslots for the best arena are booked in.

“So… why are we doing a gay porno again?” murmurs Stiles, furtively glancing around at the camera crew setting up around them.

“Well considering it’s only a thirty second clip I’d _hope_ you’d have a bit more staying power than that,” Derek replies cheekily, grinning wolfishly.

Stiles’ eyes slide over Derek’s body speculatively, “Ten bucks says I can make you cream yourself before I even get my clothes off.”

“Yeah right, I bet- “ but Derek’s voice is cut off as Stiles bends down to pull on his snow slippers, ass stuck out temptingly and perfectly sculpted. He’s man enough to admit that he may have squeaked a bit at the sudden tightening of his outfit, his eyes raking over Stiles firm cheeks, the material stretching obscenely over his bottom.

“Sorry what was that bae?” Stiles glances up through his lashes, warm golden eyes dancing mischievously as he straightens up. “Did you say something?”

Derek steps closer, looming menacingly as his eyes harden intensely. Stiles refuses to squirm under the close scrutiny and forces himself to keep still and calm, and wonders how they’ve managed to keep their hands to themselves for so long.

But Derek simply smiles beatifically and leans in to casually whisper, “When we’re finished here, I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk, let alone compete.” Stiles shivers violently as Derek continues to speak, “and every time we work on our lunges, the only thing you’ll be able to think of is how hard and fast I pounded into you.” Derek breathes gently on Stiles’ ear, “and how I made you _beg_ for my cock to take you apart.”

And without further ado, Derek calmly walks away with his head held high.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Once the cameras are all set and ready to film, the Canadian luge team does their part, luge sled proudly emblazoned with the Canadian flag and their team cheerfully lunging back and forth along the small set of track for the commercial.

Stiles uses the extra time to compose himself after Derek’s filthy mouth ran away with him, causing his self control to slip and his libido to fray around the edges. He breathes in the cool arena air, drinking in the sights and sounds of the mayhem surrounding them, and takes a sip from his water bottle. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles spies Derek watching him. So _that’s_ what he wants.

 _Well two can play at this game_ , thinks Stiles.

Lifting the bottle to his mouth once more, Stiles tips it up to take a deep swallow, his head tilted back and his throat exposed. Stiles peeks through his slitted eyelids to check on Derek and is not disappointed. The older man’s eyes track down the smooth expanse of Stiles’ neck, his gaze enraptured by the bobbing of Stiles’ adam apple as he gulps down the water. Putting the cap back on, Stiles closes his eyes fully and takes a deep breath, getting ready for the next round.

Pointedly gazing off towards the Canadians acting in their sled, he brings the water bottle up to his mouth again, distractedly worrying the soft plastic with his teeth. Carefully making sure he doesn’t smile or give himself away, Stiles delicately runs his tongue around the head of the drinking spout, circling at the opening slit. Wiping off the droplets of water, he slides his tongue back and slowly runs it back up to the tip, using the flat of his tongue to lick up all the moisture.

Then, as the coup-de-gras, Stiles hums gently against the bottle while continuing the assault with his tongue. He closes his eyes rapturously and tilts his head back for a final deep swallow, moaning just loud enough for Derek to hear, and heaves and gasps for breath when he’s finished.

Stiles opens his eyes at the sound of cameras clicking furiously, and gazes right into Derek’s intensely focused eyes, only now realizing just how many people were watching his little performance.

“Um, Mr. Stilinski?” a blushing assistant asks.

Stiles hums noncommittally.

“If you could please- I mean- we’re ready for your sled cameo.”

Stiles swaggers over to the luge sled, inordinately pleased at reducing the young man to an incoherent, flustered mess. As he passes Derek, he brings the water bottle up once more to squirt a small jet of water into his mouth with expert aim, and is immensely gratified to hear a low groan of frustration rumble out of Derek’s throat. 

As it turns out, Derek isn’t much of a television personality – he’s far too tense and serious for any kind of marketable flashiness – so Stiles is left to pick up the slack and breath life into their cameo. So after about thirty takes with Derek getting progressively more embarrassed and frustrated with their script – Derek behind Stiles and slowly lunging back and forth to mimic a sensuous rut – Stiles leans back and whispers, “Just think about how much time we’ll have before evening training if we finish early.”

“Well at the rate we’re going we’ll be lucky as fuck if we even get out of here by fucking _midnight_ ,” Derek snarls angrily.

“No, no, no bae. What I _mean,_ is think about how much time we’ll have for you to fuck me into the mattress if we finish early. Or hell, we could even take advantage of those individual sauna rooms in the village compound.”

Stiles turns around, grinning like a fox, and feels Derek freeze behind him.

They finish the cameo in the next take.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

In the end, their sled section of the commercial ends up not being used. The Canadians provided more than enough material for the luge section, while the camera crew edited the footage where Stiles was deep throating his water bottle, with gratuitous close-ups of Derek glowering lustily at Stiles from the sidelines.

The commercial is a major hit with the news crews and peace organizations and Stiles and Derek become the hilariously inappropriate faces for forward thinking. Stiles gets flustered and embarassed every single time the commercial plays on the television and Derek feels his pants tighten every single time it airs. Derek swears he will never ever get over the look of sheer mortification on Stiles’ face when Papa Stilinski calls directly from his office to congratulate the launching of his son’s new career in soft-core porn. 

What really happens after the commercial is surprising to absolutely no one.

“Come on big boy,” Stiles taunts while bent over the bench, sweat dripping down his temple as Derek thrusts into him from behind. “You’ve pounded me harder on the course.”

Derek shoves his cock in to the hilt and stops moving, “It’s going to be awful hard to sit properly on the sled if you keep talking like _that_ ,” punctuating his last word with a good hard thrust, Derek’s balls slapping wetly against Stiles.

Stiles laughs breathlessly and moves the his hands away from the tiny brazier heating up the sauna, the scorching stones wafting up waves of heat into his face as Derek’s cock sears him from the inside. Derek’s hands move to curl possessively around Stiles’ hipbones, carefully steadying him as he slides in and out of his teammate’s ass.

“Touch yourself Stiles,” Derek growls.

Stiles takes himself in hand and furiously jerks off to the symphony of Derek thrusting against him and their combined gasps, praising whatever deity above for Derek’s stamina and his ability to locate Stiles’ prostate like an intercontinental heat seeking missile.

“Your abs are a thing of beauty and I want to lick them again as soon as humanly possible oh _god right there!_ ”

Derek leans down and nips Stiles’ ear, “Shut up and _come_.”

Stiles comes so hard he nearly blacks out, and comes back to himself as Derek cleans them off with his towel, the brazier still merrily churning out heat in the corner as though nothing is amiss.

“Fucking _hell_ ,” Stiles moans, eyes crinkled happily with a dopey smile on his face.

Derek laughs, every line on his face pulling up beautifully, “I think the Olympics have always been a little more than gay.”

 


	3. Battle of the Blades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I really just adore the idea of Stiles wearing all these tight, gorgeous outfits for figure skating and being really graceful and talented on the ice. But off the ice he’s this uncoordinated spazz and Derek finds this out the hard way after only seeing him on TV and in videos and so he thinks Stiles is this graceful swan of a person. Except he is totally not.   
> Also Werewolf!Stiles is totally a thing for me hehehe.
> 
> Also let it be known that I really don't know much about the actual Battle of the Blades beyond the fact that hockey skaters and figure skaters are paired up for routines??? Idek

Stiles will be the first person to admit that he may be just a little bit in love with his skating partner. The dude is like six feet of ruggedly masculine scent and deliciously scruffy stubble, with a dash of sass and gratuitous grump thrown in for good measure. By all measures, this should be the very last person in the _world_ that should fit Stiles’ type, and yet here he is in all his muscular glory.

Derek, on the other hand, is more than a little intimidated by his gorgeous ice partner. He’s watched countless TV reruns, Olympic routines, and news interviews of him to know that Stiles Stilinski is one of the best figure skaters in the world, werewolf or not. Derek recalls the graceful thrusts, the smooth jumps, and the flexibility of the talented werewolf. He also recalls the exact pitch and frequency of his mother and sister squealing into the phone as he told them just who his Battle of The Blades partner was.

Fast forward to his present conundrum.

“Hey come on Sourpuss this isn’t rocket science!” crows Stiles as he skates delicate circles around Derek.

“Not all of us skate around like pretty little flouncy nymphs you shithead,” Derek snarls, flubbing another small jump and wobbling on his figure skates.

“You think I’m pretty?”

“ _Stiles_.”

“Oh alright, keep your shirt on. Actually wait, don’t do that. I’ve seen some shots of those abs of yours and I wanna see if they’re the real deal or if they’re spray painted on.”

Derek crashes into a sideboard in mortification.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Stiles and Derek work together for weeks, training on a daily basis and working around each other warily. Derek learns more than he ever wanted to about werewolves, what with Stiles’ weird preoccupation with anything scent-related, and adapts in order to keep Stiles from filleting him whenever he borrows his shower towels. In return, Stiles works on consciously not breaking Derek with his werewolf strength – lifts are _hard_ okay! – and tries as hard as possible to not be overbearing with his weird wolfy quirks. But it gets harder and harder when Derek uses his towels, drinks from his water bottle, and grows comfortable enough to be touching Stiles _constantly_. The wolf in him craves the attention, being touch-starved after ten years of denying himself, and Derek unknowingly coating himself in Stiles’ scent certainly doesn’t help.

Somewhere along the way, Stiles learns to tone himself down to not overwhelm Derek, and Derek works on being more confident and assertive about his figure skating. Stiles ends up using less of his Adderall (a werewolf with ADHD, who knew?) and Derek slowly comes out of his shell until one day in training he manages to jump a triple axel with minimal wobbling.

Derek and Stiles both freeze on the ice; Derek in shock that he completed the jump safely, and Stiles’ face breaking out in the sunniest smile ever known to wolfkind.

“ _DUDE_.”

“I know.”

“BUT YOU JUST- “

“Yes I can see that.”

“AND IT WAS PERFECT!?” Stiles flails his hands around excitedly, trying to convey just how well Derek has done.

“Oh I don’t know about that,” Derek flushes deeply, his cheeks and the tips of his ears turning scarlet at the praise.

“Oh my god!” and suddenly, Derek has an armful of hyperactive werewolf to contend with.

“Dude I’m so proud! I feel like a mother sending her toddler off to kindergarten for the first time,” Stiles dramatically wipes a nonexistent tear away from his face.

Derek spins around to gaze into Stiles’ face, watching the wolf’s eyes crinkle at the corner in happiness. The human grins back at Stiles, wondering what he looks like to the wolf, all dorky workout clothes and poorly fitting skates.

And then Stiles glances over Derek’s shoulder and freezes, posture going rigid and tense, the wolf’s eyes glossing over in liquid gold and vicious claws sprouting menacingly from his fingertips. Derek shivers at the look of purely predatorial instinct taking over, and whips his head around towards the stands to stare at… nothing? No, a single flash of dark blonde hair whipping out of sight.

“Stiles? Is everything okay?”

Stiles doesn’t move, his claws slowly retreating back into his nailbeds and his fangs receding into his gums.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Derek frowns worriedly, “Are you sure? Because you know I’ll do what I can to help- “

“I _said_ I’m fine Sourpuss. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Derek raises his eyebrows sarcastically, letting his disbelief be known.

“Don’t you raise those eyebrows at me in that tone of eyebrow” Stiles snips.

Derek rolls his eyes and shoves Stiles into the sideboard.

Lovingly.

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When Derek gets back to his hotel room, he does a little research. Okay so he digs a little bit into Stiles’ past, sue him. What he finds is more than a little shocking and totally sounds like it’s being ripped right out of a dramatic crime series novel.

Stiles Stilinski – just seventeen – was finishing his last year of highschool when Kate Argent moved to town to take over the vacant post of gym teacher at his school. The newspaper articles detail the criminal charges laid against her; arson, attempted murder, intent to do bodily harm, abuse of authority, extreme hate crimes and discrimination. And the one that makes Derek’s stomach turn: statutory rape.

Derek puts the pieces together on his own, poring over old articles and news clips. Stiles fell for the gorgeous older woman teaching him and started a clandestine relationship with her, not knowing her family history. The Argents – prior to the human/lycanthrope peace bill of 2007 – were feared for their ruthlessness and indiscriminate hate of werewolves. Local murders went unsolved, supposed animal attacks increased, and hate crimes popped up with alarming frequency. Tensions were high between humans and the local pack when Kate moved to town. Within months she’d gained the love and trust of Papa Stilinski’s only son, and within the course of a night she tried to burn everything Stiles ever cared about.

Derek breathes a sigh of relief when he reads that there were no werewolf deaths, save for the extra work piled on the hospital’s burn unit, and feels his hands clench nervously when he realizes that this year marks the end of Kate’s prison sentence. Ten years locked away in a maximum security prison hadn’t seemed to deter her any though.

No wonder Stiles is nervous.

Derek clicks a link that directs him to a photo of Kate’s mugshot, and he freezes. The dark blonde hair from _before_! Derek checks the generic calendar sitting on his bedside table and realizes it’s the night of the full moon.

 _Stiles_.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Derek skids very ungracefully to a stop right outside the doors to the ice rink, checking whether the coast is clear. He peeks into the arena through the tiny glass windows and sees Stiles smoothly gliding around the ice, his lithe frame moving sinuously through his part of their routine. Derek feels his heart rate go back to normal when he has tangible proof of Stiles’ safety.

Until he sees the streak of blonde moving slowly beneath the bleachers, all predatory grace and stealth.

Derek opens the door silently, crouching down to crawl along the floor, unseen and out of sight of the hunter stalking through the arena. Stiles skates on, seemingly without a care in the world, until suddenly Kate is standing at the ice doors. Hunting rifle primed and aimed right at Stiles’ heart.

“Hey sweetheart, did you miss me?” she purr, lips curling up cruelly at the corners.

“I was wondering when you’d finally slink out of the shadows, you slimy scum-sucking mouth-breather.”

Derek gropes into his pocket for his phone and dials 9-1-1. After frantically relaying the situation to the officer, he crawls forward to get a better angle at what’s happening on the ice. It’s not good.

“Stiles, Stiles, Stiles,” Kate hums thoughtfully. “You always were so very _clever_ with your mouth. In more than one way.”

Stiles’ shoulders tense up minutely, getting ready to strike.

Kate’s muscles bunch as she pulls the rifle up for a steadier grip, making sure the butt of the gun is placed securely in the cradle of her shoulder.

“And you can tell your little human boy-toy that it’s really not a good idea to sneak up on someone who hunts wolves for a living.”

“Werewolves,” Derek corrects her, face blank with barely contained rage. “ _Were_ – as in the Latin root for _man_. Which means you’re hunting some _one_ who isn’t just another animal. You’re going after a person.”

“Sweetheart,” Kate croons menacingly, turning the gun towards Derek. “You and I have very different definitions of what constitutes a person.”

“Obviously,” Derek snorts derisively, eyes locked onto the hunter’s. “I mean you don’t really strike me as very human, let alone humane.”

Kate’s smile diminishes, but just barely, “I’m more human than that _creature_ over on the ice.”

“And yet,” Derek continues, smiling serenely in her direction. “You’re more of a _beast_ than he is.” He glances over her shoulder to see Stiles inching closer on the ice, the werewolf’s eyes glittering viciously under the fluorescent lighting.

Kate notices.

Spinning around with blinding speed, Derek barely manages to grab the barrel of the gun, yanking it upwards and wincing as it goes off right beside his left ear. Kate shrieks in anger and knocks the butt of the gun against Derek’s temple, sending him to the floor in a mess of lights and painful flashes. Dimly, Derek hears Stiles’ roar echo throughout the empty stadium, amidst the crashes and snarls of the fight. He comes to just as Stiles is on his back and holding the muzzle of the gun just inches away from his face, Kate's face twisted in an angry snarl right in the wolf’s face.

Without thinking, Derek whips off his boot, “Look out!” he cries, both hunter and werewolf turning towards him.

Derek’s boot makes solid contact with the side of her face, making her cry out in pain. Stiles uses Kate's moment of surprise to wriggle his arm out of her grip, take hold of the gun, and ram it up against her forehead with as much strength as he can muster.

Kate’s unconscious body crumples to the ice just as the police burst through the main doors with guns blazing.  

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The police arrive in time to cuff Kate to her place in the ambulance, with a major concussion and various bruises courtesy of Stiles’ werewolf strength. Derek and Stiles sit side by side as the deputy questions them, with Stiles gingerly holding an ice pack to Derek’s forehead to cover the lump. Understandably, Stiles jumps up to stand at attention when his father – the _sheriff_ of all people – barrels into the arena parking lot with his police cruiser sirens and lights going off like a fourth of July parade. Derek shivers as the alpha exits the vehicle and moves swiftly towards them.

What Derek doesn’t expect, however, is the sheriff to fold his son into his arms and start stroking a hand gently through the young wolf’s hair.

Derek clutches the ice pack to his head more firmly and looks away from the wolves, feeling like an intruder. When suddenly, a pair of steel-toed work boots make themselves known right in front of him. Derek looks up nervously.

“I hear you saved my son’s life tonight.”

Derek gulps, “We saved each other sir.”

The sheriff’s expression remains devoid of any emotion as he searches Derek’s face. Derek only relaxes once the alpha smiles tiredly, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I owe you my thanks Derek,” the wolf offers his hand. “That’s twice I’ve nearly lost my kid to that woman.”

Derek feels anger coiling through his chest like a venomous snake, his muscles tensing up at the thought of Kate getting anywhere near Stiles _ever_ again, “Well I really hope the third time is _not_ the charm.”

The sheriff just chuckles amicably, before patting Derek on the shoulder and making his way over to his cruiser, ruffling Stiles’ hair on the way.

“So,” Stiles begins, shuffling awkwardly. “I think it’s safe to say that you’ve met my crazy ex.”

Derek chuckles softly, “Yeah, but you could do better.”

“Oh yeah?” Stiles eyes glitter with mirth. “How much better?”

Derek pulls Stiles onto his lap, the werewolf straddling him comfortably, “This much better.”

As first kisses go it’s pretty amazing – what with the absolutely _romantic_ atmosphere of lingering terror, cheap ice packs, and a dingy parking lot – until the sheriff honks his horn irritably and yells at them to either get in the cruiser or get a room. Stiles throws his shoe into the driver side window in retaliation, and yells when his dad drives off with it, cackling into the night.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Once Derek gets over his super sparkling [skating outfit](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5oDUut4-qNM/UrIQ5H2YakI/AAAAAAAA2iY/O3EHVOZQYq8/s1600/MachidaFS2.jpg) and completes his jumps with little fuss – Stiles distracting the crowd and milking their attention for all it’s worth – they finish their [routine](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4qayJYwj6Ho) to an enthusiastic round of applause, the sheriff sitting right in the front row and cheering the loudest. 

The crowd cheers even louder when Derek catches a rose thrown from the audience between his teeth and, immensely enjoying the look of barely contained arousal, waggles his eyebrows cheekily at Stiles.

Stiles just slaps his butt and skates off like a rocket.


	4. Flip or Fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is down and out with a broken leg after only one run in the winter olympics and Stiles is busy winning every medal possible. Stiles does his best to be an attentive and loving boyfriend and Derek appreciates the fuck out of him. 
> 
> In EVERY way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Emily wanted hurt!Derek and for Stiles to comfort him. Of course my interpretation of “comfort” may not have been as G rated as she’d hoped, but still. It just happened I sWEAR????
> 
> Note: again, I understand nothing about what team’s are the best at what sports and I’m just pulling countries out of my head at random. Basically if I choose a country it’s because I think they’re rad as fuck and they deserve to be in my fic :)))))))

Derek curses his luck, and everyone responsible for bringing him down in the process. Only one goddamn run in and he’s already down for the count with a broken leg and no chance at the Olympics until the next one. Four fucking _years_ wasted. All the big news programs keep replaying his spectacular fall and the subsequent screams of agony as Derek writhes in pain on the slope, Stiles and Coach Finstock being physically restrained by officials from just jumping down the hill after him.

Resetting the bone had been one of the most excruciating experiences of Derek’s life. And even having Stiles there with him did absolutely nothing to dull the searing pain running up his left leg as several nurses held him down so the doctor could work his magic. Derek picks at his cast sheepishly as he remembers the rather… _colourful_ , language that he’d used on the poor doctor.

Derek’s life takes a drastic turn for the worse when he’s told he’s not allowed to move the leg strenuously for at _least_ eight weeks, therefore confining him to his bed in his team’s quarters in the athlete’s village. He praises every being possible for Stiles’ patience – unusual, given the guy’s ADHD – and attentiveness. Every single one of Derek’s needs have been taken care of and he gets ‘round the clock attention at the press of a button if anything urgent comes up.

Stiles is the first one there when Derek wakes up, and the last person he sees before going to sleep at night. But when Stiles’ advancement to the final stages of the competition get intense, beating out veteran teams like the Swedes and the Fins, he sees less and less of his boyfriend and more and more of his right hand.

Crankiness aside, Derek fucking _misses_ Stiles. Misses him like the flower misses the sun, like the ocean misses the moon, like the – oh _fuck it_ , Derek just wants Stiles in his arms again. Don’t get him wrong, Derek is proud as hell for how far Stiles has come and how well he’s doing, but it’s hard to be proud of someone’s success when you’re confined to bed and not even in the sexy way.

Which brings us to Derek’s current predicament.

Lying back in his bed amongst a nest of pillows, Derek glowers angrily at the television merrily proclaiming yet _another_ victory for Stiles. Thus qualifying him to be in the final rounds for the coveted gold medal. Derek drags a hand through his hair, frustrated with the world. It isn’t Stiles’ fault that Derek is stuck here and it sure as hell isn’t a bad thing for his boyfriend to be doing so wonderfully at the Olympics. Derek snorts as he thinks of his boyfriend’s father – the _sheriff_ of all people – and the crazy shenanigans he’s probably getting up to in their absence. He’s probably plastered the walls of his office with posters and memorabilia of his son – and pseudo son-in-law – on their road to international glory. Well, there’s probably a photo or two of Derek wiped out on the hill somewhere in there.

Derek turns his gaze back to the TV just in time to see Stiles being interviewed by some American news anchors.

“ _So, Stiles, how does it feel to have made it this far into the competition?_ ” inquires the blonde lady, her hair coiffed perfectly despite the frigid wind whipping viciously around them.

“ _Alright I suppose_ ,” Stiles shrugs nonchalantly. “ _I mean it’s amazing to have gotten this far I know, but like, it still totally sucks to have your boyfriend in the hospital while you’re out doing flips and ski runs and stuff._ ”

The news anchor is clearly taken with Stiles’ charmingly sad face, “ _Boyfriend? Someone special back home I imagine?_ ”

“ _Oh no,_ ” Stiles scrubs a hand down his face tiredly. “ _He’s here with me_.”

“ _He came to cheer you along?_ ”

Derek smirks gleefully as he watches Stiles throw his head back to burst out into raucous laughter, “ _Who? Derek? Nah, he’s anything but cheerleader material. I mean have you **seen** his face? You’d find more cheer in the Navy SEALS than in him. Not that I’d be at all opposed to him wearing a cheerleading skirt._ ”

The lady coughs awkwardly to hide her laughter, “ _You don’t mean, Derek Hale, your teammate? The young man who had that terrifying wipeout on the hill and broke his leg?_ ”

Derek’s grin nearly splits his face in half as he watches his gorgeous boyfriend smile like the sun, looking down shyly, “ _Yeah, that sourpuss is with me. I still don’t know how I managed to get so lucky, but, that’s life for you._ ”

“ _Do you have anything you’d like to say to him on air?_ ”

Derek narrows his eyes as Stiles perks up, nervous for what he’ll say on live international television, “ _Sourpuss, if you’re watching this, I’m gonna win more than enough medals for the both of us. Just you watch me!_ ”

Derek may or may not swoon a little. After squealing into his pillow delightedly for a few minutes.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Derek decides to order himself a bottle of the _good_ red wine to celebrate Stiles’ victory because, hey he’s not gonna be skiing or driving anytime soon so why not indulge a little. Derek pops the cork out and pours a generous helping into the plastic cup provided with the room service tray, tossing a cheese cube into his mouth from the tray of munchies.

And then the door bursts open, scaring the holy hell out of Derek.

“AYYYYY WHERE’S MY FAVOURITE SOURPUSS?”

“I should hope I’m your _only_ favourite Sourpuss,” Derek grouses.

“Of course you are!” Stiles sheds his jacket excitedly and flails out of the sleeves. “My favourite Sourpuss in the whole wide world!”

Derek feels his insides turn to warm, mushy butterflies at his boyfriend’s words and pats the spot beside him in invitation. Stiles leaps over and onto the bed and nearly knocks the wine off in his excitement. Instead, the lanky skier moves sinuously over Derek’s prone form to straddle him. Stiles takes hold of the bottle and tips his neck up for a generous swallow, his throat bobbing attractively as he drinks. 

Derek swallows, his throat going dry at the display, and tightens his hold on Stiles’ bony hips.

“So,” Stiles wipes his lips and places the bottle on the side table.

“So,” Derek rasps, his mouth dry.

“How are you _doing_?” Stiles’ hips roll smoothly down to rub deliciously against Derek’s groin.

Derek hisses, “Infinitely better now that you’re here.”

“Aww, you’re so sweet babe,” Stiles croons, golden eyes sparkling happily. “But there’s one thing missing.”

Derek pauses and frowns, “What? But I have wine and cheese and nice music and- “

“Oh, well I was thinking more about the distinct lack of your cock in my ass.” 

“Oh. Yes that is indeed missing,” Derek gulps.

“Do you think you’re up for a round of ride-the-reclining-athlete?”

Derek rolls his hips upwards, the hard bulge in his pants rubbing against Stiles’ ass, “What do you think?”

His boyfriend gasps at the contact, “I think it’s high time we do some celebrating.”

“I’m down with that,” Derek growls.

“Yeah about that, I’m going down first.”

Derek has about two seconds to mull over that statement before Stiles is moving up and off of him to shuffle backwards down the bed to kneel between his spread legs. Mindful of Derek’s bulky cast, Stiles takes hold of his shirt and takes it off, tossing it behind him to land haphazardly on the TV before grabbing one of the pillows from the bed to prop Derek’s hips up comfortably.

Derek’s cock twitches in his jeans at the display of strength as Stiles manhandles him into position, strong hands and long fingers moving his body to Stiles’ liking. All too soon though, Stiles is looking up at Derek through his long lashes as he slowly unzips his boyfriend’s jeans. Derek gasps when Stiles finally manages to slip his underwear past his hips, his cock springing free, flushed and pink and hard enough to break steel.

Stiles licks his lips eagerly and gets to work, starting at the base and slowly dragging his tongue up the length of Derek’s shaft. The Olympian presses light kisses all over the head before dipping his tongue into the slit, precome oozing out deliciously. Above him, Derek moans wantonly, throwing his head back in delight as his boyfriend’s talented tongue brings him to the edge of pain and pleasure.

“Stiles, _please_ ,” Derek begs, half afraid that his blood will never circulate properly to his head again if it all stays in his cock.

Stiles simply grins and – with no warning whatsoever – takes Derek’s cock further than ever before, the head bumping the back of his throat. Stiles’ throat flexes around his boyfriend’s dick and then he _swallows_ , his throat constricting around Derek and causing him to gasp and whine prettily.

Stiles blows Derek for what seems like forever, his tongue working Derek’s cock like he’s done it a thousand times before – he probably has – and Derek just tries to remember how to breathe.

Eventually Stiles pulls off long enough to reach around Derek to grab the lube from under the pillow, pushing it into his boyfriend’s hand as he awkwardly shimmies out of his jeans.

“Come on Sourpuss, I’m not doing all the work here,” Stiles tosses his boxers at Derek’s head, grinning. “Gotta put some effort into this.”

Derek grins predatorily and makes a grab for Stiles’ hips, bringing his boyfriend closer.

“Good, because I haven’t had the chance to get my mouth on you yet.”

“What? Oh. _Oh_.” Stiles breathes, his cheeks flushing delicately as he realizes what exactly Derek wants. Moving to straddle his boyfriend’s chest, Stiles carefully turns himself around to present his backside to Derek’s face, the pert cheeks clenching in anticipation.

Derek groans long and low in his throat at the sight, “ _Look_ at you,” he grabs a handful of ass. “Jesus I swear your ass is a gift from the gods.”

Stiles can barely keep breathing as Derek pulls him closer to slowly spread his cheeks, exposing the delicate pink furl of his hole. He licks a hot stripe up from Stiles’ balls to his hole, and then he blows gently against the sensitive skin. Above him, Stiles shivers, and then he _really_ gets to work.

Derek rims Stiles until he’s red and rubbed raw from his beard, his hole sloppy and wet and loose with Derek’s saliva and a generous amount of lube.

“Okay okay _okay_! I need your cock in me _yesterday_ ,” Stiles all but snarls, flipping himself around to sit on Derek’s groin. “Where’s the fucking condom?”

“Right here,” Derek complacently hands him the foil wrapper, licking his lips seductively. 

Stiles hurriedly rolls the condom on, and moans long and low as he sinks slowly down onto the hot length of Derek’s cock. Derek inhales harshly through his nose and clenches his hands in the sheets as he gives Stiles time to adjust to him, and then his boyfriend nods once. Without further ado, Derek begins rocking them back and forth gently, the cast and his position not giving him much leeway for movement.

Stiles growls, frustrated at the slow rocking, and places his hands on Derek’s chest for leverage before starting up a brutally fast pace. Before long, Derek brings his good leg up to press against the mattress to provide some leverage to thrust up into Stiles the best he can. Stiles is too far gone for any finesse or technique, and bounces enthusiastically on Derek’s cock, the wet sounds of Derek thrusting into Stiles’ hole drown out the TV commentators entirely.

“Oh my god!” Stiles huffs, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m gonna go for the gold!”

Derek laughs breathlessly, “That was terrible. Your puns are losing their touch.”

“Yeah well,” Stiles clenches around him, nearly reaching the tipping point. “Nobody’s an atheist ten seconds before orgasm, oh my god _yes_! Right _there_!”

Derek gets one good thrust up into Stiles before the young athlete is coming between them, his cock spitting out pearls of come onto Derek’s chest. Derek manages another few thrusts before the brutal clench of his lover’s ass brings him over the edge.

Stiles flops bonelessly down onto Derek’s chest, heedless of the drying come, and snuggles into his boyfriend’s neck. Derek nuzzles softly into the short hairs behind Stiles’ ear and smiles brilliantly.

Stiles leans up to kiss Derek, lazily nibbling on his lower lip.

“Screw the medals, I’ve got the best prize right here.”

Derek does his level best to kiss every inch of Stiles’ face.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Stiles does end up winning gold for the American team. 

He also ends up beating the current world record by a landslide.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is lucky enough to score a ticket to the winter Olympics courtesy of his sister and alpha Laura, but mostly because she’s thirsting after all the hot ice skaters. So they find out what bar the athletes go to and Derek attracts some… slightly unwanted attention. Stiles to the rescue!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a.k.a. the 'I'm pretending to be ur bf bc u looked VERY uncomfortable with that person at the bar hitting on u' AU that no one asked for but I wrote anyways. P.S. Derek is a werewolf and Stiles is a werefox.

“But Derek!” 

“Don’t ‘ _but Derek_ ’ me!” Derek growls, his cheeks flushed. “I am _not_ finding out what bar the athletes go to just so you can go hunting for your next lay. It’s really fucking awkward being your older sister’s wingman.”

“Well I already know what bar they like so I just need someone to go with me so I don’t look like the loser that’s there alone!”

“ _Laura_ \- ”

“Oh did I mention that all the twinky figure skaters will be there too?”

“I don’t- ”

“And they’ll all be drinking and flirty and cute and on the prowl.”

“But- ”

Laura’s eyes narrow stubbornly, “Well as your alpha I _say_ we’re going to the bar. And dress up a little, no one wants to do the horizontal mambo with a guy who’s wearing dirty stained sweatpants and a gross workout t-shirt.”

Derek’s wolf quails under the force of her order, while the man in him squirms uncomfortably at the thought of being his alpha’s wingman.

“Fine.”

“And wear something nice,” Laura calls out from the bathroom, digging through her makeup bag. “If you feel a deep-seated, desperate, soul-deep need to wear something black then wear that nice polo shirt that mom packed for you. You know, the one that shows off your rockin’ biceps that attract all the minivan mommies whenever we shop at the supermarket.” 

Derek throws his shoe at the closed door as she cackles.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Derek glances around the darkly lit club, warily eyeing the people milling around the tables and taking up the dance floor, and moves a little closer to Laura.

She notices.

“Relax baby bro! We’ll get you laid in no time!”

“Thanks. That’s so reassuring,” Derek replies, sarcasm dripping from every word.

“I’m gonna go order us some drinks and take a look-see around the bar,” she rubs her hands together gleefully. “Just to scope out the prospective hotties.”

Derek snorts, “If that’s not the thirstiest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Laura slaps him amiably on the shoulder and sashays away towards the bar.

Derek takes a moment to look around, furtively checking out the exits and making sure he knows where all the escape routes are, and slowly makes his way around the room to find a booth for them. The club is a bit more high-end than he’d originally anticipated, with neon lights giving the room an edgy, urban look, and the tables are all polished to within an inch of their lives – the glossy black tops gleaming under the low lights. Surprisingly, the smell of cigarette smoke is nearly nonexistent – even to Derek’s hypersensitive wolf nose – and the tiny windows near the front keep the fresh air circulating nicely throughout the room.

Derek manages to find a free table at the front of the club, just under one of the windows, and takes a deep breath of clean, crisp air. He shifts uncomfortably after taking a few seconds to peruse the clientele – all young, fit, and attractive athletes of all shapes and sizes – and notices just how fucking _gorgeous_ everyone is.

It’s at this point however, that he realizes that some of the older women have taken an… _interest_ , in him. And are making their way over to his table.

Derek swallows and looks determinedly out the window, desperate for them to take a hint and leave him alone. But luck is not on his side.

“Well sugar, aren’t you just an eyeful?” a large older blonde lady coos, her hair falling in soft waves around her lovely face.

“Agnes darling, lay off the poor man! He’s probably exhausted from a day of… _working out_ ,” drawls another woman, thick southern accent colouring her speech.

“I- I mean- I’m not- “

“Ladies step aside, and let a professional through!” purrs the third woman, a tall and intimidating ebony-skinned woman strides to stand right in front of Derek, with the sharpest cheekbones Derek has ever seen in his life.

“Marly! I saw him first!” 

“Yeah but you’re married! _I,_ on the other hand, and single and _more_ than ready to mingle.”

The second lady pushes through, totally undaunted, “So what’re your _assets_ sweetcheeks?”

Derek turns a rather fetching shade of scarlet, praying for the floor to open up and swallow him, “I beg your pardon?" 

She raises an eyebrow, “I rather like the sound of that. You, all gorgeous and muscular and lean, spread out and _begging_ for me to- “

“Hey honey! I am _so_ sorry I’m late! I had no idea my track meet would go so long!”

Derek swings his head around frantically, only to meet the shimmering amber eyes of a _very_ attractive young man, moles dotting his skin and lush lips just begging for a kiss.

Then the guy… winks at him? 

Gratefully taking the hint, Derek barely manages to play along, “Hey! Yeah I’m sorry babe. The bar was super crowded and I wanted to make sure we got a table. How did your practice go?”

The stranger kisses Derek softly on the cheek and slides into the vacant spot opposite of the wolf, with an almost feline grace that makes Derek’s pants feel two sizes too tight, and leans forward on his elbows, amusement sparkling in his eyes.

“Just terrible! It was absolute torture! Finstock is working us to the bone these days,” amber-eyes glances slyly towards the ladies gawping at them. “Oh sweetheart you’re so rude! Why haven’t you introduced me to your new friends? I’m Stiles, an absolute pleasure to meet you lovely ladies.” The stranger – _Stiles_ – grins charmingly, his eyes crinkling with a boyish mirth.

“O-Oh!” Agnes stammers, cheeks flushing prettily. “I am _so_ sorry! We didn’t realize you were here with someone, oh my goodness what have we done?”

The other two women freeze, mortified at the mishap, and manage to stutter out some apologies before fleeing the scene.

Derek sighs in utter relief, slumping to the table, “I think I owe you a drink.”

Stiles chuckles, “And a name. Apparently we’re dating and I _still_ don’t even know what it is.”

The werewolf snorts unattractively, “Derek. Currently trying to melt into the table due to embarrassment at attracting all the MILFs in the bar.”

Stiles throws his head back and cackles, “I guess cougar hunting season is starting early eh?”

“Oh my god that was terrible,” Derek covers his face with both hands.

“Can I get you gentlemen some drinks?”

Derek starts, shocked that his sense didn’t pick up on any approaching people, and nearly knocks the entire booth over. The waitress cocks her head to the side and raises an eyebrow sceptically, clearly judging Derek for his clumsiness.

“Yes! Actually I think we’ll start with some shots, maybe some tequila. And could you bring us some rye and ginger to chase it down? His treat of course,” Stiles winks at Derek.

“Comin’ right up!”

Derek uses the distraction of the conversation to scent the air, subtly trying to detect what Stiles is. Obviously not human, the scent is too woodsy, with way too much tang to be as bland as human. Not a were-cat, wrong personality.

“Fox.”

Derek blinks, “Pardon?”

“You’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are wolf-boy,” Stiles smirks, his eyes flashing bright gold in the dim light of the club. “I kinda figured it’d be obvious, what with my sparkling personality and brilliant acting,” the fox smiles beatifically, playing up his charms and batting his eyelashes. 

Derek sniffs the air again, _ah, there it is_. The scent of lemon, cold air, and freshly cut grass wafts into his nose. Figures.

“So I guess making a lone wolf joke would be in poor taste then?” asks Stiles, his eyes crinkling a the corners.

“Pretty much. And you’d be wrong,” Derek pays the waitress when she returns with their drinks. “My sister is here with me. Although I haven’t seen or heard from her since walking into the joint.”

“Dude! You came here with your sister? That’s pretty lame.”

 “Well it’s kind of hard to ignore an order from your alpha,” Derek slides his wallet back into his jeans. “And besides, she’s the one on the prowl for some young, hot Olympians who are looking for a good time.”

“Oh, well,” Stiles snorts. “Maybe I should give her my number.”

Derek flat out laughs in his face, “yeah and she’d eat you alive.”

The fox delicately raises an eyebrow, “depends on who’s doing the eating.”

“Okay let’s stop talking about my sister and cheesy innuendo. Kinda awkward,” Derek shivers disgustedly. “And we can’t let these shots go to waste.”

Just as Derek brings the glass up to his lips, Stiles flails out frantically.

“What, what, _what_ are you doing you heathen?”

“Taking a shot?”

“Excuse _you_. This is tequila, and it must be taken properly,” Stiles scoops up the salt shaker from another table and plonks it down between them. Derek watches as the fox carefully takes the lime slices off of the shot glasses and places them on the napkins.

“Lick. Salt. Shot. Lime.”

“What.” 

“This is how you do tequila shots Sourwolf!”

Derek shakes his head fondly, “You’re not making any sense there fox-boy.”

Stiles sniffs delicately, “my thoughts are avocados I cannot fathom into guacamole. Now. _Lick_.”

Derek’s eyes are immediately drawn to the smooth slope of Stiles’ neck, dotted with moles and absolutely _delicious_ looking. Leaning forward, he gently places his tongue on the curve of Stiles’ shoulder, and drags his tongue slowly along the skin. Above him, the fox shivers delightedly at the contact, and gasps prettily. Derek smirks and puts a pinch of salt on the damp skin, before tossing back his shot – the tendons in his neck standing out – and leaning forward again to swipe up the salt. 

Stiles moans low in his throat as Derek sucks on his lime, blue eyes locking with gold.

“Holy _god_ I think I just had a religious experience with your tongue.”

The wolf chuckles, “your move holy man.”

Stiles narrows his eyes and leans forward, nipping the skin at Derek’s shoulder and dragging the roughness of his tongue to lap against Derek’s neck.

Derek groans low in his throat and clenches his hand around the empty shot glass, briefly worried about shattering it, and squirms in his seat as his cock fills out in his jeans. Stiles plays with his neck until there’s a satisfying hickey at the edge of Derek’s shirt collar, and then leans back to suck back his shot – his chin stretching up obscenely. Derek hands him the lime and tries – unsuccessfully – to calm himself down.

 _Ridiculously attractive bastard_ , Derek glowers.

Stiles giggles to himself, watching the conflicting emotions play across the werewolf’s face, and pulls his second drink closer.

Then he looks over Derek’s left shoulder and freezes, his eyes going comically wide.

“What?”

“Nothing! It’s just, wow, I just never thought Coach would ever have so much game.”

Derek turns his head around to look for the infamous Coach Finstock.

What he finds is his beloved sister standing in the V of Finstock’s spread legs, the she-wolf standing and the human sitting on a raised barstool, and the Coach looking like he just won the lottery. 

“Oh my _god_ Laura what are you doing?” Derek hisses to himself, incredulous.

“Wait, _that’s_ your sister?”

Derek can only nod, before doubling over with raucous, full-bellied laughs that catch the attention of several patrons at neighbouring tables, knowing full well that Laura will be more than able to hear it.

It’s all worth it when she looks up to glare at them and manages to see the supreme look of shock on Derek’s face as Stiles moves to sit in his lap, before kissing him breathless.

Neither of the wolves go back to their hotel room that night.


End file.
